Yes, Chef!

My terrifying and exhilarating first year in the culinary world

I loved school- three words I never thought I'd say. I loved it from the moment I looked in the mirror as I buttoned up my brand new, bright white chef jacket on the first night all the way to the champagne toast in a room full of classmates, our instructor and our families at graduation.

Peter Kump's New York Cooking School at the time was in an old walkup on the upper East Side of Manhattan. I bounded up the three skinny flights of stairs, passing everyone else in their uniforms on the way to my assigned kitchen classroom. 

When I entered the room I saw a long center island for demonstration with a cook top. Standard kitchen equipment, commercial refrigerators, both regular and convection ovens, bowls, mixers and various utensils. I took my seat at a large communal table among fifteen other students.

Our Chef instructor was a tall, thin bearded man named Allen. He was from Texas, had trained at La Varenne in France and was funny and sarcastic as hell. He turned out to be a no-nonsense instructor and  I was lucky to have him.

The first night was knife skills. The rest of the week we had our lecture then practiced blanching and refreshing vegetables, the proper proportions in making a vinaigrette, compound butters, sauteeing, theory of cooking protein and macerating.  Every night we split into groups to execute a recipe. When we were finished we set the table, sat down together opened a bottle of wine and ate what we had prepared. We discussed the evening's lesson, cleaned up and left.

Now I was one of those people in class that I had always despised as a kid. I raised my hand all the time to ask questions, I took copious notes. I was mesmerized and shot dirty looks at people who insisted on talking during a lesson.  Although Chef would always give a biting remark that would shut them up right away.

I was the 2nd oldest person in my class. There was one guy older than me who had a rich wife with a successful career, sounded like he was a bit of a flounderer and wifey wanted him to do something. There were a few young, pretty girls who thought they might want to get into food writing, another one a little older, an actress, wanted to do food tv.  A couple of Spanish guys who worked in restaurants already wanted to get some more technique under their belt and the others weren't quite sure. I knew I wanted to be behind a stove. Somewhere, like a lunatic and certainly not like the other normal mommies, I wanted the heat, the noise, the adrenaline. Even though I had not experienced it yet, like a moth I was drawn to the flame.

Three nights a week I came in full of excitement and anticipation to learn the craft. How far away I felt from my suburban mommy divorcee life. Nobody knew anything about me. Chef would push us along, "hurry up, look at the time! If you were catering a giant party in the Hamptons and The Queen of England and Martha Stewart were about to land in a helicopter in their evenin' gowns what would y'all do?" Get a move on!". As students we were a little slow. We had no idea of the pressure of what it felt like to cook with a deadline. 

I learned about the mother sauces, white sauces, brown sauces, red sauces and all their variations. I learned about duxelles, quenelles, ballatines, gallatines and how to make a raft of egg whites to clarify consomme. I tried rabbit, sweetbreads and frog legs for the first time. How to de-bone a duck from the inside out. Classic souffle, rolled souffle, frozen souffle. We were taught how to choose fish properly (red gills, clear eyes, firm to the touch and smells fresh like the sea). Boning, stuffing, rolling, sauteeing. I soaked up a new technique every night. Then over the weekend, I'd try it out myself, for my friends and my kids. They were happy to be guinea pigs. 

Every two weeks we would have a test. My eight year old daughter and I would sit on my bed at home and she'd quiz me. Sometimes I'd go to a coffee bar and study. Since I took so many notes I was on my game. I aced all my tests because my goal was to graduate blue ribbon status which was the highest level. 

After the first culinary unit came baking. We had quickbreads and yeasted breads. Genoise, buttercream- how to use a pastry bag the proper way, we tempered chocolate, made custards and pastry cream. 

When it came down to the last few classes I was sad, I could have gone on and on. There was so much to learn and I felt I had only scratched the surface. What I came away with then was that when you graduate from culinary school you are not a chef. You have learned basic technique. It would be years before I felt I could actually call myself a chef. It's all about experience. From bottom to top. You must have humility, learn to take a beating, do menial work and practice, practice, practice till you can do your job in your sleep, and with the hours of a chef you might just be doing that. Frankly, the real world is nothing like school. Ask any chef, much of the time we'd rather hire a cook with experience that worked their way up from dishwasher than a culinary grad. 

Our group said goodbyes with promises to keep in touch, which we never did. Once in a while I'd go to an alumni party but rarely ever saw anyone from my class there. I'll always be thankful that I had Chef Allen, because he left for a leave of absence after that. He helped to instill the professional values that have lasted throughout my career.

 Next step was doing my externship. Graduation was dependent upon working in a real kitchen for required amount of hours. Usually these were unpaid positions, but they provided the opportunity to work with the finest chefs in top notch kitchens. In my fantasy I'd work in a kitchen in Sicily, an old inn with a room for me. My parents would come with the kids where they'd play on the beach and I'd cook with the Italian ladies, making pasta and picking ripe and luscious tomatoes off the vines in their garden.

That was never going to happen. Not at this juncture in my life. I had to come up with the next best thing. I'd been watching the Food Network and had been intrigued by one particular chef. His name was Mario Batali, a robust guy around my age with an bright orange ponytail and orange clogs to match. He always wore shorts and his belly would pull at the buttons on his chef coat. American by birth, of Italian heritage, he'd spent much time traveling, cooking and living out my fantasy in Italy. He had a very small trattoria in Greenwich Village called Po, that had become hugely successful. He was about to come out with his first cookbook and open another restaurant. But the fame that he was starting to get was not what drew me to him. It was about the food. Everything he did on tv spoke to me. Simple Italian food. Few ingredients but great flavor. Using the bounty of those places I adored like Sicily. If I couldn't go back to Italy, I'd make it happen in Greenwich Village. 

The school hooked me up. Chef Mario and I spoke and arranged my schedule. No more commuting in with my classmates, I was a big girl now. I was scheduled from 3- close, which was roughly around 11 o'clock with clean-up afterward. 

The restaurant was tiny. It held a tight 34 seats with a small bar. Through a curtain there was the kitchen. To the right was a mini salad station, a dishwashing machine, one sink and going counter clockwise was a window with spices jammed on to the windowsill, the range with a flattop, 6 burners, two ovens below. A little table-top grill, a slicer,two lowboys with a skinny cutting board, the board for the tickets above then back to the doorway. Right at the doorway was a little freezer with a shelf below that had 3 bowls and a food processor. That was it.

It wasn't pretty either. Yellowed, run-down, beat-up and not the cleanest place I ever saw. Later on I learned that this is not uncommon in New York. Space is at a premium and some of these buildings are really old, therefore grandfathered when it comes to code.

There was a back door that led to a little yard where the air conditioning unit was. Sometimes we'd put cutting boards on top of it to do our prep there. Only we'd get shocked constantly because the damn thing wasn't grounded properly.

Much of the prep was done in the basement. It was also used for dry storage and the changing area. There was a walk-in refrigerator that was probably 3' by 3' so it barely qualified as a walk-in at all. More of a "stand-in". 

Po was where I was thrown out of the frying pan and into the fire. Chef Allen had not been kidding. There was pressure and deadlines. When I came in at three the lunch crew was finishing up and I was to help with the dinner prep. I was under the tutelage of Andy, the night sous chef. Skinny, tall, also wore shorts all the time but had great legs as opposed to Mario's pasty white chubby ones. Andy had a great sarcastic sense of humor but got nervous during service. Many cooks are. It's such a high pressure job.

I met the Mexican crew. New York is fortunate to get so many Mexican immigrants as a work force. These guys have a hard life, usually living in large groups in one small apartment. They work all the time, they left families behind. They get horny and lonely and often drunk to let off some steam. For the most part, in my experience they are usually great guys and great workers. 

So among mis compadres I would set up my cutting board in that dark windowless basement. When guys came in they changed into their kitchen whites right there. I usually just turned my back. I was in boys town now. I always came to work already dressed. I never wore shorts either. I did wear lipstick, a dark color that led Mario to christen me, "Downtown Brown". 

Otherwise I kept it low-key. 

I'd chop vegetables, onions, carrots, celery for stock. Herbs for the dinner mise en place. Now that I was really working and doing some volume I started to get blisters on my fingers that eventually turned to calluses. Chef would give me veal breast to butterfly, anything he gave me to do would totally intimidate me. He'd have me bone out 40 rabbit legs or stuff 50 chicken thighs for that night's special. Maybe fillet a salmon. More blisters, more calluses.

One day as we were all jammed into the kitchen upstairs I misplaced a vegetable peeler. I looked all over for it. Mario asked me what I was doing and I told him. "Keep looking" he said sharply. I did, but to no avail. He looked me right in the eye and said "look in the garbage till you find it". This is where you answer "yes, Chef" and you do it. I felt my way through the potato peels, the fish skin, the egg shells, the cigarette butts until I found it. That was a great lesson for me. There was one peeler and it was not to get lost carelessly. Throwing things away is like throwing away money.

The first few nights during service they had me stand near the small freezer and watch. I hated doing this. I felt like a little kid who was in the way. The waiters would come flying in and I'd have to move, the salad guy would have to run past me to go downstairs to get something he'd run out of. They had me scoop gelato and that was it. That week Andy and Mario decided that they'd talk with Scottish accents, they'd say in their brogue, "She's a scooo-perrr, she is!" and laugh heartily. The gelato was really firm and it was hard to get out of the bucket quickly. But I never said a word about it. I never, ever play girly in the kitchen, to this day. When I talk to women who want to get into the business it's what I tell them. Do not be a priss. Do your own lifting, get your hands dirty, no nail polish. Be one of the guys if you want respect. And never, ever let them see you cry.

After a couple of weeks they put me on the line. I was terrified. I was pre-menstrual and a nervous wreck. Right before service I went into the walk-in by myself and shut the door. I did some deep breathing. I tried to calm my shaking and let the cool air dry off some of my sweat.

I was right beside Andy at the stove. BAM! We got hit all of a sudden. The tickets were coming in one after another. It was June in an airless, hot New York kitchen and it must have been 100 degrees. My job was to start certain dishes. Grab the saute pan, squirt some olive oil then add the first couple of ingredients. Andy would call out the order, "Clams!". Okay, olive oil, garlic, red pepper flakes. Cook till garlic is just soft but not brown. Add ladle of stock. Bring to simmer, hand over to Andy. The hardest part was doing more than one dish at a time, such as a party of four. Also learning hold and fire. Holding is when you start a dish but don't finish it till the party has finished their appetizer or salad. Fire is what the server says when they're almost ready and the dish can be completed. Because the range was so small we'd stack saute pans one on top of the other on the flat top with the food in them while holding. Andy's hands were practically a blur in my eyes as he moved so quickly and kept track of all the orders. I was slow and clumsy, he snapped at me a couple of times. By the time it slowed down my chef coat was soaked with sweat all the way through the elastic in my checkered pants. The atmosphere lightened as we started wrapping and cleaning up, I drank a Peroni with the guys. I was no longer a virgin.

 After some time I found my niche in the boys club. I started to remember my high school Spanish and could converse with the guys. I learned how to say dick, asshole, son of a bitch in addition to caliente, atras and limpiado por favor. It was all routine. We'd crack jokes while we made the ravioli sheet by sheet, or cooked and peeled utterly disgusting black lamb's tongues. Work was always very therapeutic for me too, as I still had some tough times with my husband while we went through the divorce. I worked out many things inside my head downstairs in that dingy basement as my knife would slice through a leg of lamb, humming along with the Spanish radio station. On July 1 my divorce was finalized. When Mario saw me next he congratulated me and said I was like a "fresh fig on the tree, ready to be plucked". As much as I did not relish the sight of him in his boxers when he would change in the basement, he was a huge influence on me from that short time I was there. He went on to great success. As did Andy and others who have been kissed by his star.

On my last day they gave me a book, "The Art of Eating Well, an Italian Cookbook", by Pellegrino Artusi, signed by everyone there. I walked out head held high. It had been a tough road, literally- commuting in and out of the city. Coming home sometimes at 12:30 at night, having to get up early in the morning and get the kids to school. I was exhausted. On my feet for hours and hours, grabbing a nap when I could. But I did it. One day I hoped to return to Greenwich Village with Murray's Cheese, Ottomanelli Brothers and all the other great food places, the life and the people. For now though, it was time to go back to Connecticut, my family and the next stage in my career.

The young, skinny, dark-haired culinary student working hard on a duck breast.
Standing behind me and the hanging pots is a vigilant Chef Allen.

Mean Girls Part II or The Devil Wears Chef pants.

The first time I met her, she was merely another instructor at school. I was in the chef's office entering some data into a computer with only about 2 minutes to go before class time when she came bursting through the door. I had never had any kind of exchange with this woman, good or bad prior to this moment but she came screaming like a banshee (in a Southern accent, so from here forward anything I write that she said you must imagine in a Southern drawl) accusing me of unplugging a computer in a classroom. Being that she was so rude about it, I didn't even lift my gaze from the screen and merely answered, "Okay."
In a matter of months though, management canned my boss, the head instructor and in his place put her.
She had been in another department. Turns out she was supposedly trained as a pastry chef.
Oh great.
I gave her the benefit of the doubt because I am a professional. I shook her hand, congratulated her and offered my help with anything she might need. A week or two  later, her father passed away. I took up a collection, purchased flowers and all the chef instructors signed a sympathy card. I placed it on a table in her office so that she would see it when she returned to work.
She never mentioned a bloody word about it. No "thanks y'all" or anything.

Still- the boss is the boss. I forged forward. I tried to be the best that I could be. Soon enough though I noticed that this woman had all the social skills of a wet fart in a sleeping bag. They stunk. Morale went spiraling down among the staff. We started to wonder if our office was bugged or if there was a snitch in there because she seemed to know more than she ought to and constantly berated us for complaining. Now one of the reasons that a faculty lounge exists is so that teachers can blow off some steam from what is a very high pressure job. And if we weren't bitching before, we certainly started to now. She repeatedly told us how lucky we were to even have our roach infested office.

I have been the big cheese before and I know fully well what a difficult job it is. There are a couple of things that are important to remember when you have a staff.

•  Listen to them. Get both sides of the story. Start out with the assumption that your team member is right and have their back. It is really important to workers to feel that their boss respects them, believes in them and thinks that they are valuable.
•  Admit to being wrong once in a while. To err is human, remember?
•  If an employee is valuable give them a warning before firing them. Sometimes a situation can be rectified.
• Try to treat people equally and don't pick favorites. You may like some of them more than others but the playing field should be level for all.

Our leader screamed at us. Humiliated us. I kept a secret list on the whiteboard above my desk hidden behind some papers that I called the S.O.W. (Shit of the Week). I will always try to find humor in a bad situation. It did seem as if every week there would be one particular instructor whom she would dump on especially hard. Once she'd finish hounding that person and stormed out of the office, I'd slide the papers aside and say, "well Chef so-and -so, looks like it's you this week" and enter their name.
Not only was she just downright mean but it was hard to respect her professionally. If she was this great pastry chef it would be a real asset to show her stuff a little. The students always asked and she would snap at us when we would approach her. She made up all kinds of excuses why she couldn't or wouldn't do a demo for them. Her predecessor also used to substitute teach once in a while, a great way to be in touch with the students and to understand the perspective of the teachers. She never did, except for one class that was lecturing only. It became clear to us that she knew nothing. Worse than this was her refusal to listen the the chefs about how lousy the syllabus's were or how the requisitions for food were inadequate. If a chef was caught at the stewarding department trying to get a lemon and she was there, God help you!
Morale sunk deeper and deeper. The students were low priority. Shoddy equipment was put in the kitchens and she would get mad at us when it didn't work. Certain chefs could breeze out the door leaving a disastrous mess in their kitchen, others who were not favorited would get chastised if they left a rolling pin on a table. We never felt supported or like a team.  Once in a while her predecessor used to take the department out for drinks and a meal together for a little bonding. Now staff would run out of there to hide in a bar and bitch to one another, commiserating about our jobs. We never felt secure. People were getting fired constantly, management would lie to our faces, we started mistrusting one another and altogether it became a dysfunctional working environment.
When I was promoted to a management position for the evening shift, she zeroed in on me even more. Every morning I woke up to really nasty e-mails about something that I missed the night before. No matter that the place was cleaner now, in better order and overall a good feeling at the school at night, I'd get a snippy note that there was an open container of mustard in the reach-in in K-5!!!!  I started to dread looking at my  messages in the morning.
Eventually she had a hit put out on me. I know it had to do with the fact that another chef and I were dating on our own time and discreetly. She made it look performance oriented. The cowards started blacklisting me. They wrote up reports that were full of untruths so that they could start a paper trail.
Instead of perhaps approaching me and discussing management's disapproval of my relationship with the coworker, together we might have come up with a solution. Something honest would have been the high road. Instead they threatened us, we lied, they lied and it was ugly. We both got fired.
I had been trying to get out of there, I had been interviewing and doing tastings for other jobs. In the long run it had been my plan to leave because of the abuse. What really hurt though is that she badmouthed me, without my being there to defend myself. I became the scapegoat for everything that had been wrong at that place. There is one problem with that though. I don't want to toot my own horn but, everybody liked me. Toot.  Frankly I don't think they believed a word about what she said in connection with me. The outpouring of support that I got from students and coworkers was great affirmation and truly touching.

Now I live a peaceful existence without a tyrant over me. And I may not be perfect but I'll tell you one thing, if you sent me condolence flowers, I would sure as hell say thank you.

Queen of the Jungle

In my last post I described the beginning of my day, the creaky ride up to eleven hours of ups and downs full of surprises.
Some days it's relatively easy. A lesson goes smoothly. Perhaps at the time I have a "good" class. Bright, motivated and hard workers. That's a pleasure, but not always the case.
Sometimes by pick of the draw I'll get a group that is, how shall I put this diplomatically...challenged?
One colleague sums it up as, "one French-fry short of a Happy Meal", or I've heard, "one firecracker short of a Chinese New Year". It's all the same meaning that overall they are just more work and harder to teach.
One repeat student, who had failed my baking class before stood right in front of me as I demonstrated how to mix a type of dough. I slowly went through the procedure, repeated verbally the very important steps, looked him straight in the eye as well as my other students (the ones paying attention). Literally two minutes after they were to do it on their own he asked me questions that I had just explained. The exact process I had just taken him through. Where the hell was his mind? Maybe the little squirrel who rides the bicycle inside his head that supplies the power to his brain had been on a nut break. I don't know. I take a deep breath and use all my most patient skills from being a mother and explain it once again.

Okay- so I have some of those to contend with.

The biggest surprises though that require split decisions and thinking are the outbursts. One must remember that our student body does contain some people with violent backgrounds. They have the tatoos and the piercings as souvenirs (unlike a lovely crocheted poncho given to a certain famous ex-boss of mine with a record). We have a security guard on premise and any type of incident is written up.
One afternoon I strolled into our hot kitchen ready to start the day's topic. Our class the day before had been the second part of a lesson where we iced and decorated the cakes we made on day one.
My class was seated around the stainless steel table in the back of the room where the board is. There was the usual buzz of conversation, getting their books and supplies out. As soon as I reached my place at the head of the table I looked up at the face at one of my students, enraged.
"Chef, why you give my cake away?!" Large brown eyes with long lashes, usually friendly stared coldly at me. The border of his black do-rag showing beneath his regulation white patisserie cap. Most days this guy was kind of goofy and I had to keep him focused on task. Today he would not get off it.
"Because", I said calmly,"you were not here yesterday".
"But Chef, that cake was mines!" , this is one word I really have trouble with. "Mines", and it's not the plural of an underground tunnel where coal is harvested.
"The policy is when you miss one half of the lesson you don't get to finish it. That was explained very clearly from the beginning of this module. We have to keep moving"
"Yeah but why you give MY cake away. I can't help it if someone else dropped they's! That cake was mines!"
His cake had been used as a replacement when another student had dropped hers yesterday. She's another story.
Back and forth it went. The class watched, a couple of people chimed in with a "let it go, man" or "you holdin' the class up". The student only became more agitated and loud.
I have learned in my short time there that there is something very primal in our teacher-student relationships. You have to let them know who is boss. You have to do it quickly. Because everyone else is watching and they will walk all over your ass if you don't. There are not a lot of white Jewish lady from Connecticut (now of Chelsea/Meatpacking) chef instructors, or for that matter probably anywhere in their lives.
I had a moment. A moment where I stood outside of my body and looked down at this stand-off. I didn't know what this kid's background was. I didn't know how far he'd take it over his stupid cake. I knew though that I had to put an end to this. This fire had to be put out immediately.
"OUTSIDE, NOW!" A very large and loud voice from within me commanded.
"You had no right to do that, Chef!", he would not drop it.
"NOW, YOU AND ME. OR I WILL CALL SECURITY. NOW!"
The room was quiet. He pulled away from the table, and swaggered toward the door.
I had won. I had conquered the enemy in front of the onlookers.
And it felt good. I felt empowered.
I walked out to meet him in the hallway. He started again about that damn cake.
"LISTEN. I WILL NOT HAVE YOU DISTURB MY CLASS ANY LONGER. I AM THE CHEF, I MAKE THE DECISIONS AND THAT IS FINAL. IF YOU HAVE ANY FURTHER PROBLEM YOU TAKE IT TO CHEF B.
I HAVE A CLASS TO TEACH.
The voice had spoken. Now I swaggered. As he went back into the classroom, muttering to collect his things, I went to Chef B. and gave him the heads up. He nodded and agreed with me.
I went back to my class and apologized for the delay. I explained the two day lesson policy again. Not only did they all say that they knew that but they gave me their full support. Apparently what he was really worked up about was not that the cake had been used but who had used it. He didn't have any love for her and it pissed him off big time.
A few minutes later the student returned to the classroom and apologized. I calmly accepted his apology and gave him directions on what he was supposed to do now.
The class went on without a hitch and he never f***ed with me again.

How Sweet It Is.

My story today is about my baking class that I just completed. It's only the second time I've taught the baking module. I've always said I'm not a pastry chef but I consider myself a baker. My ex-partner, the pastry chef, with whom I've since parted ways, was my mentor. I learned most of what I know about baking from him, and I have the experience of owning a bakery too (aka- nightmare on South Water street).
What I'm finding is, I love it. I love teaching it and doing it. Some things I had not done since I went to school like puff pastry or danish dough. I'm amazed by my own hands when I demo how to make pie dough. Those are experienced hands! There's joy when I crumble the cold butter with the flour, mix in the ice water and make a cohesive ball of dough. Rolling it out, showing them how to flute a crust. I'm damn good!
Then there's the part about seeing them try it. Most of them have not baked and they are intimidated by it. I always tell them that this is school and it's okay to make mistakes and that they are learning.
Cautiously they get their hands in there. I do it all by hand (as long as they are clean). There's a lot of calling out to me, "Chef, help!", "Chef, is this right?", "Chef, I'm scared!". Suddenly all these tough street brothers and sisters are like kindergartners. They become vulnerable. Some of them actually look like they are going to cry when their cake batter falls, or their dough turns into a sticky mess. Then there is the look on their face when they succeed, sheer pride.
Like a mother I go around and fix it, try to show them where they went wrong. My competent hands show them how to roll that pie dough, keep turning it so it does not stick to the table. Keep it moving, move quickly.
I fight another battle too. I want them to do everything from scratch. I know that most of them, it they go on, will end up in a corporate food service operation. They will used pre-made fillings and cheap shortenings. But not under my watch they won't. I insist on getting fresh fruit. I bring in some of my own recipes. I have a stash of Valhrona cocoa powder and let them use it. I show them how brown their chocolate cakes come out and how the flavor is deeper than the cheap stuff the school supplies. Most have never seen a vanilla bean, so I bring those in too. And they love my toolbox with the bench knife, the pastry tips and all my stuff that I've collected over the years.
There's usually a big guy with tattoos and a history who turns out to have a gift. This guy will have "the touch" as I call it. His puff pastry dough is perfect. It's smooth and pliable with perfect flecks of butter in it. He's amazed with himself as well as I am secretly.
I'm not going to go into the disciplinary events that took place in this class, because we had some rough days. But I will say this, I got through to them. Some very tough girls in that class. A couple of quiet ones too who barely spoke a word. My big guys who wore their do-rags underneath their baker's cap and when they wear their street clothes look like hoodlums. Somewhere I earned their respect and I got to know who they were inside. They gave me a card, a thank you card on Friday. Signed by them all, some saying that I actually got them to like baking.

I'm sorry readers, that this is so un-bitchy. I'll try harder next time.

To Chef, With Love

It was just another day in the life. I was in the city, taking the servsafe test, having an interview up at the Dinex corporate offices and then lunch with my daughter followed by a little browsing at Sephora.
Around 5 o'clock or so we went our separate ways. I turned the corner on 14th St. to head east. In front of me outside of an old office building, next to some dingy scaffolding I saw some kids, young adults actually. They were wearing kitchen whites with an insignia on them, patisserie caps and were huffing on cigarettes, obviously on some kind of break.
"Hey!", I spoke up to them, "This some kind of culinary school here?"
They assured me that it was. Why did I want to know? I told them I was a chef. They asked me where I worked and I told them nowhere right now but that I was looking for a teaching job. Did they need anyone here? They might, they answered enthusiastically, the guy to call is Chef B., he's the one that hires here. "Okay, thanks!", I said as I bid them adieu. Could be a lead. Never heard of this place but I'd give it a try.
After a bit of telephone tag Chef B. and I scheduled an interview. Now I had to remember exactly what block it was that I met those kids. When I started to see checkered pants and cigarettes, I knew I was in the right place. The building is a pre-war with brass and dark paneling. The reception area for the school was directly ahead of me as I got off the crowded elevator. It looked a little chaotic, first thing I noticed was that I was probably the only little white Jewish lady there. There were students of all shapes and colors, a lot of Spanish being spoken, someone holding a little baby. And in the middle of all this was a mounted flat-screen tv with Ina Garten picking vegetables in her garden in the Hamptons to make a salad with. I wondered about that.
Chef B. came through like a strong wind that pulled me along behind him, trying to keep up. We spoke for a good 45 minutes and during this interchange I learned a little more about this place.
It's not a school that gets advertised in the back of glossy food magazines. It's not a sponsor of tv cooking shows. The walls are a little yellowed and the equipment is kind of run-down. What it does do is provide a possible future for people who might not be as fortunate as the rich kids whose mommy and daddy send them off to the CIA. Some are people who might have made some mistakes, done their time and now seek a vocation. Kids and adults who get subsidized from the state so that they may have an opportunity to support themselves and gain some self-esteem while they're at it.
I have always had the desire to teach. On tv I did it in a superficial way but the idea of molding someone into a real professional is exciting to me. I had a great teacher at my cooking school, the former humble Peter Kump's, now "ICE" (The Institute of Culinary Education). This chef made a huge difference in my life. He set high standards that I have held ever since. Whether in culinary or at my kids schools, I believe that the quality of education comes down to one thing- the instructor. That's the element that will make it or break it.
A couple of times in the past ICE offered me avocational classes. Basically those are classes like "Couples are Sushi Lovers" or "Shrimply Scrumptious". They told me to come up with a concept and we'd do it. Only, I just didn't think like that. I don't want to teach housewives who are drinking wine and talking the whole time. Or corporate team building. I want to help kids or adults learn proper technique, proper protocol, to be able to walk into any kitchen and learn how to give and get respect.

It's not uncommon that before being hired as a chef instructor that you must do a demo in front of a panel of the other chefs and field questions. Of my three choices I went with boning a chicken, cooking the breasts and making a pan sauce. I just pretended I was on tv, keeping it smooth and relaxed. I answered their questions and admitted when I did not know the answer. My biggest problem? The friggin' paper toque. I am not a hat person. When I'm on the line I wear a bandanna. Those toques never stay on my head or I bump into things with them. Halfway through my demo that toque was out of control but I just kept going.
After the chefs conferred privately, and after a mountain of paperwork, Chef B. called to offer me a job as a substitute teacher. I had one clog in the door!

I trailed a few nights with some other chefs just to familiarize myself and to get used to wearing that damn toque. I started getting to know some students. We have a chef's office that we share, which if this was a sit-com most of the action would take place. It's where the gossip is, the bitching, the friendly name-calling. And what really popped my eyes open is that apparently it is our co-ed locker room. You can take the animal out of the kitchen, but you can't take the kitchen out of the animal. Without a second thought, as they are casually conversing the chefs are pulling off their pants, changing out of their uniforms. One chef was sitting on her chair with only her bra on top, as if we were just hanging the laundry out together. As I took this all in I made a note to myself that if I'm going to join in the party here I'm going to have to keep up with waxing a little better.

I have now taught a few classes on my own. I hear my voice, I am trying to pass on the values that were passed on to me. Pants pulled up, no sagging here. Apron bib up or folded over and tied around the waist over the chef coat. No jewelry. Knife down when you walk. As I go on I see that some are probably not going to make it. They may not have the innate intelligence or skills. But others, I see the light bulb go on in their head and it is a thrill for me. One night we made tomato roses. Tomato roses are something I haven't done since school. It's not my style and I certainly never made them when I worked for M****a S*****t. My first instinct was to get a little snobby about them. But I realized yes, those kind of things are mainly done in hotel and banquet work. And there's nothing wrong with that. If one of these folks gets a garde manger job at a Hilton Hotel, I would be thrilled. So if we are going to make tomato roses, we are going to make the very best tomato roses.

The look on their faces when they saw what they did was priceless. The fact that in one night they learned to make those pretty things with their own hands. Suddenly the cell phone cameras came out and they started taking pictures of their own work.
That's called pride.

Now, I like where I am. I like the stripping chefs and most of all, I like the look in the student's eyes when they say, "Oh, I get it! Thank you, Chef".